


The Sky Turns Green

by Mugatu



Series: Like a House Falling in the Sea [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, canon atypical communication of feelings, canon atypical discussion of emotions, canon divergent but canon possible, how can i make season four even sadder, rated M because sex is mentioned but not shown, sex positive jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mugatu/pseuds/Mugatu
Summary: More knocking, sounding hesitant now. Martin gets jerkily to his feet. On the way to his door he grabs one of the bright red canisters of CO2 that he still keeps all over his flat. It’s not Prentiss, he knows it’s not, but if it’s one of Orsinov’s people the CO2 is better than nothing, if only as a bludgeon. He takes in a deep breath and peers through the peephole expecting to see something made of plastic or worse.Instead he sees Jon stood in the corridor, shuffling his feet nervously.AU where Jon and Martin confessed their feelings before the Unknowing.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: Like a House Falling in the Sea [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622326
Comments: 44
Kudos: 329





	The Sky Turns Green

More than a year after Prentiss the sound of knocking still startles Martin Blackwood so badly he drops his mug of tea. He’s been sat at his sofa for the past twenty minutes staring at nothing, long enough the tea has grown cold and doesn’t burn when it splashes his calf. The mug cracks but does not shatter, not that Martin notices over the hammering of his heart. He tries to calm down by reminding himself that Prentiss is _dead_ and her ashes are in a jar on Jon's desk. All that does is draw attention to the fact that it’s still almost midnight. Almost midnight the day before Jon and the rest are heading to Great Yarmouth to blow up a wax museum while Martin attempts to metaphorically blow up their evil, all-seeing manager.

More knocking, sounding hesitant now. Martin gets jerkily to his feet. On the way to his door he grabs one of the bright red canisters of CO2 that he still keeps all over his flat. It’s _not_ Prentiss, he _knows_ it’s not, but if it’s one of Orsinov’s people the CO2 is better than nothing, if only as a bludgeon. He takes in a deep breath and peers through the peephole—it was the first thing he did when he moved, installing one in the door—expecting to see something made of plastic or worse.

Instead he sees Jon stood in the corridor, shuffling his feet nervously. As Martin watches Jon raises his hand as though to knock again before lowering it awkwardly.

Martin’s heart, already racing, starts pounding even faster as he drops the canister of CO2 then hurriedly undoes the latch and security chain. _Jon’s here in the middle of the night, something’s gone wrong._ As Martin throws open the door and meets Jon’s eyes his heart goes crazy again for entirely different reasons. First reason is that Martin remembers that all he’s wearing are his boxers and an old vest. Second reason is he notices what Jon is wearing, he’s dressed more casually than Martin has ever seen. He has on a worn gray hoodie over faded jeans that have an actual _hole_ on one knee that reveals a flash of brown skin and dark hair. Jon has a messenger bag over one shoulder, the strap of which he’s clinging to like a child clings to a favored blanket. Most of the time Jon looks ten years older than his actual age, most of the time it’s easy for Martin to forget that he’s actually older than Jon by a few months. Right now is the first time he’s seen Jon and thought that he looked _young,_ how he must’ve looked during University or even earlier.

Jon startles at the sudden movement of the door, taking a step back and blinking at Martin as though surprised to see him, like he hadn’t been the one to show up unannounced in the middle of the night. That line appears between Jon’s thick eyebrows, the one Martin finds adorable and might be a little bit obsessed with (there’s a lot about Jon’s face he’s obsessed with). Jon’s eyes flash over Martin and that line deepens, causing Martin to remember all over again that he’s in his underwear.

“Hi,” Jon says, keeping his gaze pointedly _up_ even as he doesn’t quite meet Martin’s eyes.

“Hi,” Martin says, throat dry and voice an octave higher than normal, “What…is everything ok? Has something gone wrong—“

“No!” Jon says quickly, “Nothing’s gone wrong, I mean. Not yet at least. But I am ok.”

“That’s…that’s good,” Martin says, though he feels no relief and can’t relax. If anything now that he knows there’s no immediate danger he’s even more aware of the fact he’s not wearing trousers. He hears Jon’s voice echoing even a year later, _Martin! Good lord man, if you’re going to be staying in the Archives, at least have the decency to put some trousers on!_ Jon doesn’t remark on it now, however, or give any indication he’s noticed beyond pointedly _not_ looking. Or talking. Jon just stands and stares at a point over his shoulder until Martin asks, “Jon? What…why are you here, then? It’s nearly midnight—”

Jon jerks a little, as though startled, “Oh! Oh, sorry, I didn’t…I’m sorry if I woke you…”

“It’s fine, I wasn’t really planning on sleeping much tonight anyway,” Martin says. He glances down the corridor, realizes that probably isn’t true of his neighbors, and steps aside, “Come in.”

Jon hesitates before following Martin inside. While Martin locks up Jon takes a few hesitant steps inside the flat, looking over everything. Martin’s flat is small—just a living area with a kitchenette to one side and a door leading to a coffin-sized bedroom on the other. There’s room for his couch, a two-person dining table, and an entertainment center. Martin flushes all over in embarrassment—he moved here not long after the attack on the institute and he still hasn’t unpacked fully, the walls are bare and there are a few half-empty boxes on the floor. Also there’s a puddle of tea on his carpet next to a cracked mug, which Jon can’t possibly fail to notice.

Martin hastily goes to the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towel, explaining to Jon, “Sorry. I knocked it over when I heard you—“ He gets down and starts mopping the tea.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Jon says. Martin glances up from his position on the floor and sees that Jon is doing that _not looking_ thing, “I should’ve rang first instead of just barging in.”

“No! It’s fine,” Martin says, “Just me being clumsy.” The tea is as cleaned up as it’s ever going to be, the mug is cracked but not shattered so there are no pieces to pick up. Martin gets to his feet to toss the lot in the bin. Once his back is turned he feels his shoulders grow hot, and the ridiculous notion that Jon is staring at him so hard that he can _feel_ it comes to Martin.

Well. Maybe not ridiculous, because when Martin turns back to Jon the other man is hastily looking away. The sight of Jon freezes the words in Martin’s throat, and it starts to sink in just how _strange_ this is, Jon showing up at his flat in the middle of the night. As though Martin had voiced the thought out loud, Jon stammers out, “I. I _am_ sorry. I honestly didn’t think of the time, or to text, or…anything.”

“It’s fine,” Martin says, finding his voice, “Like I said, I wasn’t planning on getting any sleep tonight. Or tomorrow night, for that matter.”

“Right,” Jon says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Jon,” Martin says softly, “Why are you here?”

Jon finally meets his eyes, if only for an instant. Long enough for Martin to see just how _scared_ he is.“I…I just wanted…if something goes wrong in the next few days I’ve. Um. I’ve hidden some tapes in my office. Ones I’ve thought would be useful to everyone. Just. Wanted to let you know.” Martin’s stomach clenches when he realizes what Jon is saying. If something goes wrong, but the world doesn’t end. The something going wrong being Jon not coming back. And Martin…Martin can’t even begin to think about that scenario. Jon continues, “Also…just wanted to say…sorry. For anything you might hear on them, I was…” he makes an awkward gesture with his hand, “Well. You remember how I was. How I am.”

“Grumbling about what a ‘blessed relief’ getting me out of the Institute is?” Martin says, giving Jon a playful smile to show there’s no hard feelings. Jon just looks even guiltier, “Jon, seriously. I understand. You should’ve heard some of the things I’ve said about _you_. Just as bad.”

“That’s not true,” Jon says, “I’ve listened to the tapes. All of them.”

Martin raises his eyebrows, “Not every conversation in the Institute goes on tape.” Martin pauses, “Oh Christ, _please_ tell me that not every conversation in the Institute goes on tape—“

“No!” Jon says, “But the ones I’ve _heard…”_ Jon closes his eyes and takes in a breath, “I never thanked you. For believing in me…f-for… _defending_ me when everyone thought I was a deranged killer.”

“Well,” Martin says, “By that point you’d told me how you collected antique postcards and fossils, so I knew you were too much of a nerd to kill anyone.”

There’s a flicker of a smile on Jon’s face, then he grows serious, “No one else thought the same. And I know I wasn’t…kind. To you especially, so you had every reason—“

“Jon,” Martin says, “Yeah, you were a bit of a prick for awhile. But not when it counted. Like when you let me live in the Archives after being attacked by worms.”

Jon dismisses that with an embarrassed shrug, “Such loyalty to someone who _really_ treated you very badly. I complained about it enough to negate any kindness.”

Martin laughs, “Jon. It’s _ok._ I know you don’t think like that anymore.”

“Not sure if I ever did, really,” Jon whispers so low Martin can barely hear him. Then, in a louder voice, “Well. I just wanted to be sure I said sorry, in case…in case. And, and to let you know about the tapes.”

“Right,” Martin says slowly. Jon is still visibly tense, shoulders up and not meeting Martin’s eyes. Martin thinks then of some of the conversations he’s had with Jon since he came back to the Institute months ago. How stilted and awkward they were, both of them stammering all over themselves. This would’ve been after Jon listened to the tapes and heard how Martin refused to believe he was a murderer. Then he thinks of how _long_ the trip from Jon’s flat—Martin doesn’t know his exact address, just that he lives in Islington. “Jon,” Martin says, throat dry, “Why are you _really_ here?”

Jon lets out a rueful chuckle and presses his thumb and forefinger to his eyes. The burn scars on his hand are shiny swirls of pinks and whites, “Because I’m scared, Martin.” He laughs again without humor, “Because this could be one of my last nights alive and I didn’t want to spend it alone.”

“So you came to me,” Martin says slowly.

“You’re the only person I know who doesn’t hate me,” Jon says. He’s quiet for a moment, then straightens his shoulders and meets Martin’s eyes, “No, that’s not true. Well, it is, you _are_ the only person who tolerates me these days. But. But that’s not _why._ Not why I wanted t-t-to…to not be alone with _you_. In particular.”

“Oh,” Martin says stupidly, then, “Sorry. I still don’t understand…”

“I trust you,” Jon says, eyes still locked on Martin’s, “Those tapes, the ones I was talking about. The worst ones were…when I was investigating Gertrude’s murder. How paranoid I was, and I found out you were _lying_ to me, I got so…” Jon trails off, struggling for words, “I thought _everyone_ was lying to me. Part of it was the…the Sasha-thing, but you were the one I…” Jon huffs out a breath, “You kept dragging me to lunch, making me eat, and I…those were the only times I felt _relaxed._ Like the walls weren’t pressing down on me. I got so upset, thinking it was all a…some sort of _game_ , an act you were putting on for me—“

“Jon—“ Martin interjects, although he has no idea how to respond to this bewildering torrent of words.

Jon barrels on, “All that time you were the only one sticking up for me, the only one who _didn’t_ think I was a paranoid _lunatic…_ and…I know part of that is just _you,_ how nice and kind you are, but it’s not…you’re not _stupid_ or naive. You survived Prentiss for two weeks, and we would’ve died in the Archive if you hadn’t…You never hesitated to let me have it when you were annoyed with me, like with skepticism, or t-trying to lie about breadknives instead of monsters…I never thought that you…but then I listened to your tape, the one you made today, a-a-and, there was the _office gossip_ I overheard, so I thought maybe. Maybe…” Jon trails off. He hasn’t broken eye contact once during the entirety of this speech, his normally closed-off eyes wide and brimming over with feeling.

Martin can’t say anything. It’s too much information, he’s having trouble absorbing what it all means. He just gapes at Jon.

Jon visibly deflates the longer Marin is silent. Finally he drops his eyes and mutters, “Right. Sorry. It was stupid, I just…good luck, Martin. While. Um. While we’re gone.”

Jon turns abruptly, as if to leave. In that split second it sinks in what Jon is trying to say, that he came over because…

Before Jon can go even two steps toward the door Martin lunges forward and grabs him by the elbow, yanking Jon back to him. Later he will wonder just where the hell he got the guts to do it, in the moment he’s just overwhelmed by how much he wants to. Martin gets flashes of Jon’s face—eyebrows drawn together, making his forehead crinkle in that adorable way of his. Another flash, Jon’s eyes widening in surprise and lips parting. Martin pulls Jon right up to his chest while the other man raises a hand and braces it against Martin’s shoulder. He releases his death grip on Jon’s upper arm and slides that hand over Jon’s shoulders while his other hand winds around Jon’s slender waist. Jon wraps his own arms around Martin’s neck as he rises up on tiptoe.

Their first kiss is simple, closed mouthed. Jon’s lips are dry and a little chapped but wonderful for all that, and Martin presses a kiss against that perfect cupid’s bow again and again. Martin feels fingers clutch at his hair as Jon opens his mouth, maybe just to catch his breath but Martin takes full advantage. He slides his tongue into Jon’s mouth, making the other man jump a little in surprise. Martin freezes, but before any doubt or regret can form properly Jon is pushing forward, sliding his own tongue clumsily against Martin’s. Jon tastes faintly of tobacco and smoke.

Martin runs his palm up Jon’s spine and tilts him back. Jon lets out a muffled “mmmmmph” sound that turns in a proper moan as Martin dips him lower. That noise lights every nerve in Martin’s body on fire, sizzling bright and hot. The kiss keeps going on and on, some vague part of Martin’s brain thinking that Jon will stop it eventually. Finally Martin realizes _he_ has to be the one to stop this unless he wants the world’s worst case of blue balls. He forces himself to break the kiss, pulls back and kisses Jon’s cheek, above his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, then presses their foreheads together. Jon’s skin is very hot, almost feverish against his own.

Jon is still on his tiptoes and Martin is still hunched over. Both of them are panting, and Jon is trembling a little. Martin’s lips are hot and tingling, every nerve and cell in his body crying out for _more,_ to kiss Jon again and again in even more places. Martin ignores them all and just holds him.

Jon is the first one to speak, voice rough, “So…off—office gossip has…it wasn’t wrong?”

Martin huffs out a laugh, “I’m still not exactly sure what the office gossip _was.”_

 _“_ Um,” Jon says, sounding dazed, “That…you…um. That you fancied me. ‘Had it bad’ according to Basira…”

Martin can’t help it, he laughs, “You needed to overhear ‘office gossip’ to figure that one out?” Then, to gentle away some of his teasing he kisses the tip of Jon’s nose. “Anyway, for clarity’s sake: Yes, I fancy you. Loads. Have ever since…I dunno. When you admitted you were scared during the attack, or…” Martin gives Jon another teasing smile, “When you actually thought I was a _ghost—“_

 _“_ Yes Martin, I _remember,_ ” Jon says, voice a ghost of the prissy, you-are-such-an-idiot tone he used exclusively with Martin until recently. In a softer tone Jon murmurs, “Um. I fancy you as well. Just so you know. For clarity’s sake. I know I’m not good at…good at _showing_ that…”

“I’m starting to get an inkling,” Martin says, kissing the tip of Jon’s nose again and giving him a squeeze. They hold each other for several long minutes, Martin marveling at just how well Jon fits in his arms. He’s slight, all sharp edges and pointy elbows that are softened against Martin. He's overwhelmed with giddy happiness, Jon _fancies_ him. The Unknowing an unimportant blip compared to that, everything is going to turn out fine, he _knows_ it will, it _has_ to.

“Do you,” Jon stammers out, interrupting these thoughts, “Are you…do you want to have sex?”

It takes a second for those stammering words to sink in. Martin hears them, they’re all in English, but at first they’re incomprehensible. It’s all too much, things moving at light speed and Martin has barely caught up to the fact that Jon is here because he wants to be with Martin, because he _fancies_ him, and is ok with being kissed and held. When Martin processes them at last and believes he wasn’t just imagining them he jerks his head back and gapes down at Jon. Martin’s expression makes Jon stiffen and make to pull away, stammering out apologies for being so _forward._

“ _Jon,”_ Martin says in a high, strangled voice while tightening his arms so Jon can’t move away, “Just. Stop talking.” Jon’s mouth snaps shut and he drops his head. Jon’s skin is too dark for him to really _blush_ but Martin can see his forehead is shiny with sweat. Martin tries to _think,_ “I thought that you were…I mean, I heard you talking to Tim once, about whether you liked men or women or anything in-between, and you said you weren’t interested in any of it.”

“I’m not,” Jon says simply.

“Ok,” Martin says, trying to ignore the hammering of his heart and the roar of _want_ uncurling in his chest. When Martin had first realized that he had _feelings_ for his stubborn arse of a boss he’d comforted himself that at least it was _safe_ to feel that way about Jon. He knew that Jon wasn’t interested in anyone, so it was ok that he would never be interested in Martin _specifically_. Martin could love him absolved of all responsibility to _do_ something about it. Courtly love, like a knight serving his lady from afar. That feeling of safety has vanished since Jon came back to the Institute and Martin learned he was staying with his ex-g _irlfriend,_ and that meant that Jon might be interested in _some_ things. “Sorry…I just thought that meant that you didn’t…”

“Oh,” Jon says, “I suppose that’s…that’s _fair._ I. Um. I don’t, normally. When I do it’s…it’s more about…comfort? than actual _attraction_.” Jon lets out a choking noise, “ _God,_ that sounds so awful. I’m sorry, but I’m not…I know I’m not… _normal,_ when it comes to that, I—“

“ _Jon,_ ” Martin says, “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Well,” Jon says, “I’m not.”

Martin snorts, “What’s _normal_? I just…I’m happy you want to be ‘not alone’ with me. Anything after that is just a bonus.”

“Oh,” Jon says, sounding lost, “So…so you don’t mind, then?”

“Mind what? You’re not interested in sex? Of course I don’t.”

“No, I just told you that I _sometimes…”_ Jon makes a frustrated noise, “Do you mind that I’m not interested often, and when I am it’s not…it’s not the _right_ way.”

“See previous response,” Martin says, and to stop any more talk about Jon saying he issn’t “normal” or “right” kisses him. Soft. Chaste.

“Right,” Jon says when Martin pulls away, “Sorry, does that mean you don’t want…I mean, because I do, but I understand if you…”

“You’re going to _kill me,_ ” Martin says, and kisses Jon again, far less chastely. Jon makes that soft “ _mmmph”_ noise again that sets Martin’s blood on fire. Martin forces himself to pull away, “Sorry. I mean, yes, if you’re sure, but…but please know you never _have_ to…and we can do as much and as little as you’d like, right now.”

Jon’s trembling a little, “I. I know. Like I said, I…I trust you. I almost never…that’s why…” He composes himself a little, forcing his voice to be dry and clinical, “I don’t exactly know what I’d like, to be honest. Just. You. More kissing and less clothes? I’m sorry, I’m not very _good_ at it and I’ve never…with another man, I mean. Sorry. I hadn’t planned on any of this, if I had I would’ve done some _research_ first…”

“ _You are going to_ kill _me,”_ Martin groans out, shutting Jon up with yet another kiss. It’s a very effective technique and he plans to use it as often as possible in the future.

He only pulls away so he can grab Jon’s hand and lead him to the bedroom.

****************************************************

Some time later they’re tangled together in Martin’s sheets, sweat drying on their skin and catching their breath. When Martin has recovered enough to speak he brushes Jon’s damp hair out of his face and tucks it behind his ear, murmuring “Was that alright?”

“Yes,” Jon’s voice is husky and his breathing is ragged, “That was…that was lovely. Thank you.”

Martin doesn’t bother to try and control his giddy laughter. He buries his face in Jon’s shoulder and peppers it with kisses, “You’re quite welcome,” he gets out inbetween giggles.

“Was…was that alright for _you_?” Jon asks. Martin raises his head so he can stare at Jon in disbelief. The other man’s eyelids are heavy and his pupils are dilated but Martin can see an unacceptable hint of nerves lurking.

“It was a bit more than alright, Jon,” Martin says. Instead of light and teasing as he intended the words sound very solemn, drowned by a wave of sudden feeling. During their achingly slow, careful session Martin discovered that Jon likes being held down, likes Martin’s full weight pinning him in place. That he likes having his hair pulled and likes when Martin uses his teeth. That Jon, while not unresponsive, is reserved in a way that in any other partner would read as bored. Sort of thing that Martin would usually find a turn off, except for how Jon _watched_ him. Martin felt like he was being devoured and _savored_ , like he was the most fascinating thing Jon had ever seen and must be studied and cataloged down to the last cell.

So. A bit more than alright.

“Good,” Jon says, “Next time I’ll…” he makes a vague gesture with his hand.

 _Jon is going to kill him._ “You want a next time?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“ _Of course,”_ Martin replies, mimicking Jon’s tone and accent, “Well. I want to take you on a proper date first.”

“Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t realize…” his brow knits in concentration, “We had lunch. Lots of times. Some of those count, surely?”

“Not good enough for me,” Martin says, “Dinner and a movie? Then back to my flat for more of this, if you want.”

“I suppose I could be persuaded,” Jon says. His eyes slip closed and a little smile plays at his lips, “When were you thinking?”

“Friday?” Martin says, “Give you a few days to recover, after…” his voice catches, “ _after.”_

Jon goes from boneless contentment to rigid tension. He opens his eyes, glances at Martin’s face, then away. “Right…” Jon says thickly, “After. If there is one.”

“There will be,” Martin says fiercely, grabbing Jon by the chin and forcing him to look him in the eye, “The world isn’t going to end and you’re coming back. Or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Jon says, trying to smile. He grows serious, “I will, then. Come back.”

“Well,” Martin says, kissing him, “Glad that’s settled.”

****************************************************

They actually manage to snatch a few hours’ sleep. Martin wakes up curled on his side and the first thing he sees is Jon’s face. The other man is curled on his own side in a mirror of Martin’s position, their legs tangled together and arms draped over the other’s waist. Martin stares at Jon for a long time in disbelieving joy, reminding himself that last night actually happened. He lays a hand on Jon’s cheek, thumb tracing the lines of that well-studied face. The deep-set eyes under heavy brows, the aquiline nose with its little bump on the bridge. Full lips, the top a perfect cupid’s bow and both swollen and bruised after a night of kissing. The honeycomb of scars on his jaw and neck broken up by the white line from Daisy’s knife. Jon needs a haircut, it’s getting quite shaggy. Some of the grays in his hair have gone full silver, like glints of glitter in the morning sun.

 _Let me keep this,_ Martin prays, although he’s not sure to whom this thought is addressed. He’s heard Jon’s interview with Gerry Keay, and knows there are no entities of love or kindness or indigestion. Just fear. Still Martin can’t help from silently begging, _if there’s anything listening…please. Please let me keep this._

Jon shifts beneath his palm, the line between his eyebrows forming. He opens his eyes, blinking in confusion first at Martin then at his state of undress. Then he relaxes, eyes going soft. Jon has thick black eyelashes, and in the morning sunlight his eyes are shades of amber and gold. “Good morning,” Martin murmurs. He has to kiss Jon then, going for the corner of his jaw instead of cheek or mouth in deference to morning breath.

“G’morning,” Jon slurs, delightfully rumpled and sleepy. Martin wants to keep him in bed all day, curled up safe in his arms. He glances at the small analog alarm clock on his nightstand (another Prentiss-influenced purchase, he never wants a power outage to leave him stranded with no way to tell time) and sees it’s half seven. Jon is meeting the others at ten, they’ll drive to their hotel just outside of Great Yarmouth, do a little recon, then tomorrow morning will plant highly dangerous explosives all over a wax museum while trying to avoid being skinned by an evil plastic mannequin and her cohorts. Meanwhile Martin will be attempting to trick their all-seeing, mind-reading manager.

Martin almost laughs at the absurdity of his life.

Instead he tucks Jon’s hair behind his ear and asks if he wants to get a shower while Martin makes breakfast.

“You’ll need one as well,” Jon says, “I don’t mind it if you join me, saves time.”

Anyone else Martin would read this as an invitation for more than showering, but with Jon it reads as a desire to not be alone, even for a few minutes. “That works too,” Martin says, swallowing hard.

****************************************************

Martin was right about the shower not being an invitation for anything sexual. Not that he’s disappointed; the whole thing is wonderfully _tactile_. Intimate. Martin’s shower is small, hardly big enough for one person, much less a man of his size. Jon is just able to squeeze in as well, his back tucked up against Martin’s chest. They turn the water on as hot as it will go, just barely on the right side of painful. Jon lets Martin wash his hair, melting against against his chest with a contented sigh. Martin thinks he could stay that way for hours, fingers massaging Jon’s scalp and drawing out pleased noises from his throat.

When they’re both scrubbed clean Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s slight frame, resting his cheek against the top of his head. Hot water beats down over his shoulders and he shuts his eyes, trying to focus on here, now, and not what is coming. He doesn’t have to ask to know that Jon is doing the same thing.

Eventually they have to untangle and turn the water off, the sudden chill a reminder of everything they’re trying to keep out.

It grows harder and harder to forget as the minutes tick by. They barely speak as Martin prepares breakfast-Jon offered to help, but the kitchenette is too small, and he’s only making eggs and toast, hardly a two-person job. Jon sits at the table, drinking a cup of coffee, and _watches._ Martin is hit with deja vu as he heats butter in the pan and cracks the eggs—he can _feel_ Jon’s stare on his back. This time when he glances behind it to confirm Jon doesn’t try to hide it, his dark eyes are intense and focused. The same way he watched Martin while they were having sex, as if he’s utterly fascinated and every detail needs to be observed, cataloged, and filed away.

It was sexy last night. It’s less so now, as it feels like Jon is memorizing Martin because he doesn’t expect to see him again. Martin wants to tell Jon to stop it, but he finds himself doing the same thing as they eat. Cataloging bits of Jon, going over elements of his face he’s studied countless times before, and mentally composing some half-arsed verses about the color of his eyes and the shape of his mouth.

“So,” Jon says finally, voice tight and wavering, “Friday night, then? Dinner and a movie?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, voice thick, “Although if you want a quiet night in before that is fine. But I’m taking you on a proper date Friday.”

Jon smiles wanly, “Good. Is there, uh…a particular film in mind?”

“I’ll take a look today, if I get a minute,” Martin says. His hands are shaking a little, “I’ll text you. Anything you’re up for? Comedy? Romance?” he lets out a strangled laugh, “I’m guessing horror is off the table.”

“Good guess,” Jon says, “Dinner is…uh. I’m flexible. Just. A place that’s nice enough to uh, dress up some? Not, not _fancy…”_ Jon rubs his neck in embarrassment, “I’d like to see you dressed up. In, in a non-work context.”

Martin inhales sharply, “Likewise. Um. I’ll look into that as well.”

“I feel I’m making you do all the work. Planning this thing.”

“I’m the one who asked _you,”_ Martin says, “Our next date you can plan.”

“Right,” Jon says, “Right. I…we should probably get moving.”

Martin nods numbly. He tells Jon not to worry about the dishes, he’ll see to them tonight. Then there’s nothing left to do but gather their things and head out.

It’s ten minute’s walk to the Stockwell station from Martin’s flat. Martin feels like a condemned man walking toward his execution with every step. When they get to the station Martin will take the Victoria Line to the Institute and Jon will take the Northern Line back to his own flat, where he’ll be picked up by the others. The silence between them is heavy, blanketing out the hubbub of the London streets around them. Martin feels like he can _hear_ the ticking of his alarm clock all the way in his bedroom. 

When they reach the station Martin unthinkingly takes Jon’s hand to not lose him in the crowd, the last of the rush hour commuters hurrying past them in a faceless blur. They only separate when they reach the turnstiles and Martin has to numbly press his Oyster card against the reader. He passes through the gate and steps aside, heart hammering as he waits for Jon to join him. He’s not able to force himself to go far, and he gets a few glares from people hurrying to their trains. The gates flick open and Jon comes through, eyes falling on Martin immediately. He hurries over, grabbing Martin’s hand a little desperately. Martin grips his just as tight, tugging him to an alcove out of the way of the other passengers. They stand facing each other, hands linked.

“Well,” Jon says, so low that Martin can barely hear him, “Friday. If not before.”

 _I can’t do this,_ Martin thinks wildly, _I can’t watch him go, possibly to his death._ He’s torn between begging Jon to stay and begging to come with him. He knows that he has his own job to do, but right now it doesn’t seem important.

Before he can do either Jon says, “I’m terrified. The only reason…the only reason I haven’t froze up is because you aren’t coming. You’ll be safe.” He laughs humorlessly, “Well. Saf _er_ , at least.”

Martin has no answer to that other than to bend down and kiss him, hard, not caring if anyone sees them, other people are as insubstantial as wisps of smoke right now. Martin pulls away and says, “Just don’t _die._ Come back. Come back to me.”

“I will. I promise,” Jon says, “We have a date, after all.”

“Yeah,” Martin says. They’re still gripping each other’s hands, and Jon raises one of Martin’s to his face and presses a kiss against the knuckle.

Later Martin can’t remember which the first of them to let go is. He does remember that Jon is the one to start walking away toward the steps leading down to the platform for the Northern line. He’s still wearing the hoodie he had on last night despite the heat of the Underground. The crowds swallow him up for a moment, then Martin catches a flash of that hoodie again.

That’s when it hits Martin that neither of them had said “I love you.” Not once during all the hours they spent together. Martin tries to tell himself that it’s unimportant, they’d said it over and over again in countless little ways, an unspoken understanding. It doesn’t matter that it hasn’t been said out loud.

Martin’s throat burns, because it _does_ matter. He’s torn between warring impulses—to chase Jon down like the hero of some hackneyed romantic comedy, or to wait until he gets back. Because he _is_ coming back, he promised.

In the end Martin decides to wait.

He regrets this decision for a very, very, _very_ long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure where everyone in the Archives crew is meant to live, and while I've been to London many times over the past decade it's always been as a tourist/student. I chose Islington for Jon because a friend lived there when he was a Single Young Professional™ and because it was on the other end from the city from where Martin lives so it worked thematically. Martin lives in Stockwell because that's where he was living when he was attacked by Prentiss, I figure he moved after but stayed in the same area.


End file.
